


of falling

by thirtyspells (weatherveyn)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Demon Castiel, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:11:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatherveyn/pseuds/thirtyspells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m the one who gripped you tight and dragged you from salvation, Dean Winchester,” he murmured, eyes a flash of glacier blue under the dark fan of his lashes.</p><p>Dean stared. “Yeah, thanks for that, asshole. Christo.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He dreamed a road that went on forever, where time gathered in deep, still pools and everything was soft and sweetly dim.

He dreamed his mother – fisting a hand in her hair and seeing a baby’s clumsy grip and a man’s scarred knuckles superimposed, hearing her laugh and pry him loose, murmuring something affectionate that lingered in his ear like the echo of the ocean in a seashell.

He dreamed his brother small enough to curl into his side in the dark, sharp elbows and bony knees and baby fat, ribs rising and falling softly under his fingers and a fragile heart beating trustingly up into his palm.

He dreamed his son-who-wasn’t, small and precious and sunlit, a spray of bright balloons drifting at the corner of his sight and the smell of barbecue permeating the air.

He dreamed a man with black eyes who wore shadows and blood, who tilted his head and bared his teeth in a coyote’s smile.

He dreamed of falling.

 

Dean came back to himself in pieces, like a window shattering in reverse.

First came the things that made him  _Dean_ : emotions without any real source, and memories – Sam first, because so much of him was tied to Sam. Sam came in sketches of a smile, the one that got thinner, sharper as he grew from four, to eight, to fifteen, to bone-weary and ageless but still smiling that fundamentally bright smile. He came in a tangle of emotions Dean’s fingers were too clumsy to peel apart and put names to, a hopeless snarl of threads that he called  _love_.

Then Dad, in the memory of rough, sure fingers curling his around the grip of a gun, a voice that gave him purpose, that kept him lifting his feet when he wanted to sink to his knees.

Mom. The scent of vanilla and tomato soup, wavering strains of  _Hey Jude_ , a whisper:  _Angels are watching over you_.

Everything else came in a surge, in flashes of sound and colour and pain: hunting, monsters, losing people, losing Sammy, scrubbing blood from his skin like Lady Macbeth – aware of it even when he couldn’t see it anymore. Darkness poured in and carried in its wake an exhaustion that settled into his bones like it belonged there, like it owned him. He felt heavy.

He dragged a breath into his lungs and choked, gasping frantically. The weight was pressing him down, so heavy on his ribs he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. There was rain stinging his skin, mud slick against his fingers as they flexed instinctively, clumsily. He could feel the grains of it under his nails.

Dean opened his eyes, squinting into the rain and the satiny grey light. Everything was blurred. He blinked, raindrops flicking free of his lashes and stinging his eyes, dripping down his temples like tears.

For a long moment, he just lay there staring at the slate-grey sky, gasping, listening, feeling, but not truly aware. Everything felt…  _new_ , so overwhelming and strange that he couldn’t think past the sensation: the patter of rain and the sweet, wet coolness of it when he opened his mouth to drink, suddenly parched; the sluggish beat of his heart; the shiver of his muscles as the chill sank in, the sharp prick of goose-bumps racing across his bare skin.

He was exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and drift back into the dream he didn’t really remember, but remembered the gentle happiness of – but the dull echo of his father’s voice was in his ear, telling him to pick his feet back up, to take another step, to keep moving forward.

“Are you going to lie in the mud for another hour, or can we get moving?” someone asked, sounding bored and nothing like John Winchester.

Dean surged upright – or tried to. The mud sucked at his back like a retreating tide and his muscles felt unsettlingly weak, like every time he’d almost bled out. Splayed in the mud, he couldn’t do anything but stare up at the sky with dread creeping in with the blackness that hovered at the edge of his vision.

“I suppose that answers my question,” the voice muttered, sighing. “Damn.”

Something squelched beside his head, and suddenly there was a dark shape looming over him, slowly resolving itself into something man-shaped. For a crazy moment, he thought he saw dark wings outlined against the sky – but, no, it was an umbrella, held over the head and shoulders of a man who stared down at him emotionlessly. 

“Wh-” Dean broke off, startled at the thin, raspy sound of his own voice. He swallowed, tried again. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Calm down,” the man said in a tone that implied he was rolling his eyes. “I’m not going to hurt you… Probably.”

“Thanks. That’s real reassuring – again,  _what_  the fuck are you?”

The man dropped into a crouch, baring his teeth in a bright, empty smile. This close, Dean could make out the pale circle of his face, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the brilliant blue of his eyes. Dean could only stare in awe, caught by the colour with the same child-like fascination he’d felt over the mud, the rain on his skin, the novelty of  _cold_.

A hand closed on his shoulder, the grip firm and uncaring but not tight. The contact burned inexplicably and Dean hissed, catching a glimpse of a smirk as his eyes fluttered against the pain. The man lowered his face, voice a low, rolling sound like thunder that caught on the canopy of the umbrella and echoed.

“I’m the one who gripped you tight and dragged you from salvation, Dean Winchester,” he murmured, eyes a flash of glacier blue under the dark fan of his lashes.

Dean stared. “Yeah, thanks for that, asshole.  _Christo_.”

The demon flinched, eyes turning black. The grip on Dean’s shoulder tightened and sent a bolt of agony through him, so strong his vision whited out and his stomach rolled. He thought he might have vomited if there had been anything in his stomach to bring up.

“You’re welcome,” it spat, and when Dean’s vision cleared its eyes were that fathomless blue again, the lips curled in a snarl. “Could you not do that? It’s uncomfortable.”

 _Uncom-_? “You’re a  _demon_ ,” Dean said, vaguely aware that his voice had taken on a hysterical edge.

“Yes, we’ve established that. Were you always this stupid, or did I bring you back wrong?”

“Get the fuck away from me,” Dean snarled, shrugging the hand off and struggling to sit up again.

The demon rocked back onto its heels, the umbrella hovering over it, and watched him heave himself upright with an expression of mixed amusement and condescension. Dean managed it, but he was shaking and dizzy and horribly, sickeningly aware that he was completely at a demon’s mercy.

As if aware of his thoughts, the demon reached out carelessly with one hand, ignoring Dean’s attempt to shove it away, and pushed on his breastbone. The pressure was almost  _gentle_ , but it was enough to send Dean sprawling back onto the ground, mud splattering out from the impact.

The demon smirked, bending close again, balancing itself with an open palm against his chest like a statement, like a threat. That close, Dean could see the glistening flecks of mud clinging to its face, the thin cracks in its dry lips, the dark power behind too-blue eyes.

“Yes, you’re helpless,” it breathed, the words falling wet and warm on his skin, “I could slit you open right now, Dean Winchester, and send you howling into whatever afterlife you’re entitled to now I’ve left my dirty fingerprints all over your soul.”

Dean swallowed, shaking. He was – fuck, he could barely sit up under his own power, let alone fight back against a demon. He had no weapons, not even his own body. He felt weaker than he’d ever felt in his life, except for waking up in that hospital bed after the coma, veins full of drugs and body heavy with blood that welled up in bruises all through him.

“But I won’t,” the demon continued, drawing back, “Because we have things to do.”

Before he could so much as open his mouth, there were fingertips brushing gently along his hairline and he was plunged into unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean woke abruptly, not so much jerking upright as twitching violently against the vibrating door of a car, his head colliding painfully with the window. He moaned and lifted a hand to cradle his head, grunting in confusion when his arms refused to co-operate. He opened his eyes and blinked in confusion at the shiny bands of metal restraining his wrists before realising what he was seeing. He stared for a moment, shut his eyes to gather his strength, and looked up. The demon quirked an eyebrow at him in the rear-view mirror, smirking.

“Handcuffs,” Dean commented, voice slurred from sleep but no longer so thin and weak. “Seems pretty vanilla for a demon – what, no kinky Japanese bondage?”

“That could be arranged,” the demon replied, off-handed. “I didn’t want you doing something stupid when you woke up again. Like try to kill me while I’m driving – you’re considerably more breakable than I am, and putting you back together once was difficult enough.”

Dean slumped against the window, watching the scenery fly past. They were travelling down an empty highway somewhere, fields stretching on forever under a grey sky. The windows were streaked with water, but it was drying and there was no rain falling outside. He wondered idly how long he’d been out.

He was in the back seat of – something. He couldn’t tell what, exactly, but it was fairly roomy, modern and it had that creepy new-car smell he hated after a lifetime of the Impala smelling of leather and sweat and use. On the floor, there was a road atlas, a couple of crumpled pamphlets, a half-empty bottle of water that sloshed back and forth like the ocean in miniature, and a muddied towel.

As far as he could tell, he was clean – which explained the towel – and at some point the demon had wrapped him in a blanket. And, alright. That was fucking creepy. He wasn’t sure whether to be glad he was still naked underneath it, or unnerved.

What was worse, he wondered, a demon dressing you in your sleep or leaving you naked?

So, maybe Dean had a reputation for doing stupid shit – but he knew how to survive, knew that sometimes it was better to wait than to act, even if he usually preferred the _questions never_ method. He wasn’t stupid, and it grated, but there wasn’t anything he could do. He was handcuffed and weaker than he could remember being in years, and while he wasn’t anywhere near _okay_ with the situation, he knew his best chance was to wait until he’d recovered somewhat.

Hell, maybe he’d even be able to figure some things out, like what the fuck the demon wanted with him, and how the hell had he wound up in the field in the first place. The last thing he remembered… what was the last thing he remembered?

Dean frowned and turned his face to press his forehead against the cool glass. He watched it fog with the warmth of his breath, remembering playing tic-tac-toe with a much younger Sam in the condensation on the Impala’s windows.

He remembered the important things: remembered dragging Sam away from Stanford, remembered dragging him out of his burning apartment while he screamed and struggled for Jess, remembered finding Dad – remembered Dad dealing for him, _dying_ for him – remembered Dad’s horrible last words and Cold Oak and being so, so sure Sam was going to die and the relief when he _didn’t_ , when he woke up in that hospital bed, but… things were fuzzy, then.

His memory was a bit shot, but he remembered enough to know, to put things together. He didn’t want to. He wanted to shy away from the thought, but Dean was used to doing things he didn’t want to. Facing things he had to, even when it felt like doing so would rip him open.

“I was dead, wasn’t I?” he asked, quietly. “You said… you said, back there, that you _dragged me from salvation_ … that you _brought me back_ … _put me back together_.”

The engine rumbled in the silence, unfamiliar and too-loud. There was something wrong, some part that rattled out of harmony, but he was too tired to pick out what.

“Yes. I did.”

“ _Why_?” Dean demanded, turning his head to catch the demon’s eyes in the rear-view, like he could force it to tell the truth that way. “Did S– did someone make a Deal?”

“No,” the demon said. “Not for lack of trying, though. I didn’t even _recognise_ some of the things your brother tried, and I’ve been around a while.”

“So, what, you assholes just decided I hadn’t been fucked over enough for one lifetime, decided you’d bring me back, have some fun kicking my teeth in again?”

“Can’t say that wouldn’t be fun, but no.”

“Then _why_?”

The demon slanted a look at him, mouth tight.

“You should sleep some more. You’ll need–”

“No. I want to know what the _fuck_ is–”

“Shut up,” the demon snarled, eyes flashing with anger. “You’re in no position to be giving me orders, you arrogant _child_. I am more powerful than you can comprehend and I returned you to life – I could tear you from it again as easily as you breathe. If you won’t show me respect, at least _fear me_.”

Dean shut his mouth, clenching his teeth together so tightly his ears rang and his temples pounded. The hinge of his jaw ached faintly, but he didn’t relax.

The demon took a shuddering breath and went utterly still, closing its eyes. When it opened them again, it spoke calmly. “This isn’t something you discuss over a casual brunch, and believe me, Dean, you’re going to thank me for every extra minute you _didn’t_ know.”

“Fine,” Dean said shortly, turning his face away again.

 

“You never answered my question,” Dean said sometime later, when the sky was starting to darken and his lucidity was wavering.

The demon shot him a dark, narrow-eyed look, mouth thinning. It took Dean a minute to realise what that sounded like.

“No, not–.” He paused. “I mean from before. Who are you?”

“Cas,” it said, after a moment. “My name is Cas.”

“And what about the poor bastard you’re riding, huh? What’s his name?”

“Relax, Winchester. There’s no-one but me in here, empty shell – Jimmy Novak was comatose for years. I figured I’d have to keep kosher if I wanted your help.” It smirked, a sarcastic little twist of its borrowed mouth. “I even asked nicely first.”

“My help? What makes you think I’d help a demon?”

The demon only laughed mockingly, but Dean couldn’t tell if the joke was on him or everyone else.  Dean shivered.

He didn’t know what to make of the heater whooshing on a moment later.


End file.
